


how happy we are, when we live in a sieve and a crockery jar

by Kt_fairy



Series: The Clio Goes West [3]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Animal Attack, Blood and Injury, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Idiots in Love, Injury Recovery, M/M, Minor Injuries, Why Its A Bad Idea To Have A Big Cat On A Ship, medical drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27723623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: "Nebet," James said, then in a softer tone when she ignored him, "Nebet. Come on, steady now." He crouched down, holding out a pacifying hand as she half turned her head towards him; ears flicking and tail slowing in its angry swishing when it brushed against James' palm, "there's a girl."ORThe totally unforeseeable big cat mauling.For my TerrorBingo prompts -Injury RecoveryandBrutality
Relationships: Commander James Fitzjames/Lt Henry T. D. Le Vesconte
Series: The Clio Goes West [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029291
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	how happy we are, when we live in a sieve and a crockery jar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JennaCupcakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/gifts).



> I said to JennaCupcakes that I'd write this about... 170 years ago. But it's finally here! 
> 
> Title is from The Jumbles by Edward Lear, simply because the poem has Big Clio vibes. 
> 
> Thanks, as always, to mskingbean for making words make sense, for sharing secret song resources, and letting me steal from Marryat through you.
> 
>   
> Based on the mention, in page 145 of JFJ's bio by Battersby, of James being attacked by Clio's ships cat. That was a Cheetah. ofc.
> 
> There is a mention, briefly, of Dundy having to hit the cheetah to get her off of James. If you do not want to read that, it begins with 'Henry picked up the capstan bar... ' and ends at ";sailors scattering..."

“Torsney,” Henry shouted up into the mizzen mast, hand raised to shield his eyes from the bright, infinite blue sky of the Indian ocean; the heat of the white hot sun clasping his neck beneath his collar. “Stop bloody moving!”

“The beast is tryin’ to kill me, sir!” the ship’s boy protested, voice reedy with panic as he clung to _Clio’s_ ratlines, eyes almost as round as his sun pinked face as he peered down at Nebet who was hissing and swiping at him from the deck.

“You stop movin’ about boy, an’ she’ll lose interest in gnawing on yer legs,” one of the topmen called down from the yards, the crew more entertained than alarmed by the ship’s cat haranguing of one of the boys.

“Quite,” Henry agreed. “It is her nature to chase things. Now, my lad, either clear off to the mizzen-top until she calms down, or stop your _wriggling_.”

“Like a tasty morsel!” one of the AB’s teased, and Henry pressed his lips together to keep down a smile. 

“It’s not funny!” Torsney protested woefully, which caused the crew to burst into peals of laughter.

“Enough of that now, lads,” Henry called, lest they descend into cruelty, and the jollity calmed as the crew returned to their work.

Nebet began pacing amidships, tail flicking angrily and all the hair sticking up along her back, showing no sign of relenting in her displeasure at her least favourite member of the crew. Henry sighed, wondering if a morsel of food might appease her, and looked towards the aft hatch as the marines there came to attention. 

“What on earth is going on?” James asked when he stepped onto the deck. His face, perfectly gilded by the sun, turned up to the slowly unfurling sails as he set his cap on his head, gaze dropping to Henry to give him a questioning look.

"Nebet has remembered her dislike of Torsney today, sir,” Lieutenant Pritchard said with measured lightness, nodding towards where the unhappy boy was halfway up the ratlines that were swaying along with the pitching of the ship.

“Didn’t pull her tail again, did he? The awful child,” James said in a smooth undertone as he came to stand beside Henry, hands tucked neatly behind his back as he surveyed the scene occurring about his mizzenmast with a weather eye.

“I think the old girl might still be teaching him his lesson, sir,” Henry commented wryly.

James sent him an amused look, eyebrow raised, "Have you tried placating her? She, like most ladies, is rather fond of you, Le Vesconte.”

“Well,” Henry huffed, aware of Pritchard trying not to grin at him, “can’t hardly coo and kiss at her before the men.”

James smiled slowly, raising his chin to speak to the boy as he strode over the deck. “You were warned to keep away from her, Torsney."

"I'm sorry captain," he called down as he tried to tug his mousey brown forelock to James, so doleful in voice and face that Henry was almost moved to pity. “I didn’t touch her or nothin', sir. I swear.”

“Be that as it may,” James said, turning his attention to Nebet who had ceased her pacing in favour of making an unhappy yowling in her chest.

"Nebet," James said, then in a softer tone when she ignored him, " _Nebet._ Come on, steady now." He crouched down, holding out a pacifying hand as she half turned her head towards him; ears flicking and tail slowing in its angry swishing when it brushed against James' palm, "there's a girl."

Her hackles were just beginning to drop when Torsney, the bloody fool, dropped down a rung, causing the rigging to creak and sway. 

Nebet hissed and spat, hair prickling like a shock as she slapped her paws on the deck, claws scraping the wood. James flinched back in surprise and Nebet - who was a creature made to hunt and kill, no matter how well she liked scratches and lazing about in the sun - sprang towards the sudden movement.

Men and officers of the Royal Navy did not fall to panic, as a rule. But the deck of the _Clio_ burst into a flurry of running feet, men shouting down hatches and cries of alarm coming from the rigging as a furious Nebet curled over James, his neck in her sharp jaws.

What followed was all a horrible blur. Henry knew was giving orders, but how he got the words past the pounding of his stricken heart he did not know. All he was aware of was James’ feet scrabbling helplessly against the deck as he struggled. The way he screamed in pain when a marine tried to haul the cheetah off him and she tightened her grip on his neck, digging her savage claws into his back.

Henry took up a capstan bar without thinking, hating to hurt Nebet even as he struck her with it, but short of shooting her it was the only thing to do. They were both spared Henry having to brutally thrash her when she released James after only the second blow; sailors scattering as she raced off towards the stern.

“Do _not_ approach her,” Henry heard himself shout over the commotion, jabbing the bar to port to direct the men out of the way, aware of the groan of pain coming from James. 

“Oh for God’s sake, get Moncrieff below,” he barked, pointing to the poor midshipman who had fainted in the commotion, the mids huddled around him hurrying to pick him up as Henry looked to Lieutenant Pritchard who was pale faced and wide eyed. “The marines are to watch her _at a distance_ , and keep her forward.”

“Aye sir,” Pritchard said smartly, turning to the marine sergeant as the doctor and Bridgens came rushing across the deck to where James was trying to sit up, thank God.

The back of his coat across his shoulders was ripped and ragged from Nebet's clawing, the shirt beneath torn and alarmingly dark with blood. Henry felt sick to see it, and dropped to kneel beside James, holding his shaking arm as Doctor Stewart carefully peeled what was left of the starched collar and silk cravat from the freely bleeding, yet thankfully shallow, wounds on James’ neck. 

"Good God, James…"

"I'm all right," James said, voice flat, his face strangely white beneath the darkness of his tan.

Henry looked to Stewart, who did not have a sense of dire urgency as he inspected James; the solemn Scotsman glancing at Henry over the top of his spectacles as he directed Bridgens to press a wad of bandages to the worst of the lacerations. "Nothing a few stitches and rest won't cure."

" _Oh_ ," Bridgens breathed, sagging with the same relief that, if entertained, Henry thought might cause him to swoon as his heart was beating with all the fluttering fear of a trapped bird.

"There," James said, swallowing hard as he eased Bridgens’ hand away so he could hold the bandages to his own neck. "Now. I shall go to my cabin for Doctor Stewart to tend to me, rather than conduct this before the men."

Henry nodded, looking around at the crew who were watching on from the ratlines and the gunwales, or peering out of the hatches. The clear concern on their weathered faces eased when their captain eased himself to his feet, James somehow not showing any sign of the trembling Henry could feel beneath the hand he kept on his lower back.

James always knew what to say and when to say it, and despite - or maybe because of the blood soaking both him and the deck - he managed to remark a slightly un-captainly, “not the first time a lady has left me so disorderly," to the men.

They laughed more heartily than it deserved, but relief had made them buoyant, and James was well liked by _Clio’s_ crew for his firm fairness and good care of the men, and his careful, intuitive sailing. They heaved great sighs and turned smiles to one another, or dropped down from the gunwales on light feet to give their well wishes to James as he passed. James even patted a tear streaked Torsney on the shoulder as he passed, telling him all was well - which was more kindness than the foolish boy deserved, frankly.

The ladder down was navigated as easily as could be expected, Bridgens helping James down with his usual discreet care while Henry clattered down afterwards. James looked even more whey-faced in the ripe, stifling atmosphere of the lower decks, the poise he had before the crew fading with every step taken towards the great cabin.

The windows were open, filling the cabin with gentle lapping sounds of the ocean, the angle of the sun casting half of the cabin in burning hot daylight and the other in shadow. James suddenly blanched white as he gripped the back of one of the chairs with a shaking hand, face pinched with pain.

“You certainly won’t pass inspection with a collar like that, old boy," Henry said, in an attempt to bolster them both as Doctor Stewart thumped his bag down heavily on the polished table.

A smile pulled at James’ mouth, a fragile thing that nonetheless lifted Henry from becoming overwrought. The smile disappeared when Bridgens peeled the roll of bandages from James’ neck, the cotton sodden with thick, black blood.

“Oh,” James said as he looked at it, eyes becoming unfocused as he stopped trembling. Henry darted across the cabin to catch James as he crumpled, loose limbed like an Italian marionette, into a dead faint.

* ***** *

The muffled talking began just as Henry had finished a letter to his cousin, dear Henrietta. He sat back in the small chair in his airless cabin, listening to the voices - one steady and one rising and falling erratically - and willed his tired mind and gunnery ruined ears to work out where they were coming from.

Torsney had only been mildly pilloried for what he had caused, no doubt thanks to James being kind to him before the crew; but Henry knew how troubles simmered amongst men and quickly boiled over, and would not have the crew become savage and bullying while he commanded in James’ stead.

The noise was not coming from the fo’c’sle, but much closer. And when Henry realised this he jumped to his feet, ignoring his discarded shoes to rush into the great cabin in his stockinged feet.

It was dark apart from the moonlight shining through the stern windows, the open door to the captain's private cabin glowing with insipid lamp light that was throwing unclear silhouettes over the deck.

Henry almost walked into the edge of the table as he hurried across the deck towards the sound of Bridgens’ steady voice laced over James’ unsettled murmuring. 

Even with the sickly shadows of his drawn face, James did not look to be in the delirious grip of those dangerous fevers that often overtook the wounded. His eyes were overbright and bewildered, but not unseeing, the sheen of sweat on his skin nothing more than might be expected on a still, hot night such as this.

“Good evening sir,” Bridgens threw over his shoulder, occupied by holding James’ shoulders to keep him against the sailcloth pillows piled at the head of his berth, arranged to prop him up so as not to strain his injuries. 

“Evening John. Is it the laudanum?” Henry asked, edging around Bridgens to stand beside him as James threw a rasped ‘ _damn you’_ at the feet of a fellow named Stanley. 

“I cannot rightly say, sir. The captain has been struggling with sleep for the past few days, and then is half dreaming and confused when he wakes,” Bridgens spoke over James half coherent protests. “He is asking for persons I do not know.”

“All right,” Henry huffed, pushing his hair off his face as James struggled to sit up, the attempt made useless by the strength of Bridgens arms. “James, old boy, you really must lay still.”

To his great surprise James stopped his fretting, frowning at Henry as if trying to see him through a thick sea-fog. “Why are you here, dear heart?”

Bridgens grip eased on James’ shoulders as he glanced at Henry, and there was an uncertain moment before they wordlessly shuffled around one another in the narrow cabin. “Where else should I be, James?”

James made to speak, then seemed to either wake up further or find more clarity as he looked about himself. “This is not the Cornwallis.”

“The China war is long over. You are on the _Clio_ , sailing towards Mombasa.”

“Why do I hurt? Am I still shot through?” he asked disjointedly.

“No, James,” Henry said gently, his heart clenching. 

“No,” James agreed softly, looking down at himself. “Not enough blood,” he blinked, eyes dull and underlined with grey smudges of exhaustion. “Nebet attacked me?”

“Yes,” Henry agreed, Bridgens sighing beside him, sagging wearily The steward looked tired - he had been tending to both his duties and to James ever since he was hurt, and if James was so disturbed in the night then Bridgens could hardly have been getting any rest himself. “I shall sit with him, John. Let you have some rest.”

He looked as if he might give a token protest, but James motioned to his steward, his fuddled mind clear in his heavy movements. “It's all right John.”

Henry moved the chair from James’ desk as Bridgens cleared out, sitting down heavily beside the bunk and helping James to drink some water. “You’ve been having dreams, old boy.”

“Bad dreams,” James said slowly, touching the bandage at his neck. “I have them all the time. Not so...”

“You do?”

“...gunpowder and blood," he said as if it were funny, then blinked at Henry. "Where is Nebet?"

"The carpenter has built her a pen in the stern," Henry said, laying his elbows on the rail of the bunk. "The men won't have her near them, of course. I check on her, and the old girl seems to have forgiven me for thrashing her. Felt like an awful brute until she bumped my hand with her head."

"You’re hardly capable of brutality,” James murmured.

Henry thought of the bombardments he had been a part of in China; smashing ancient fortifications that had no hope of withstanding the force of Naval firepower, and thought that had been a rather ruthless act to be a part of.

“Unless, of course, the brutality is directed at Arabian wild pigs,” James added as he shifted to lay his head back against the pillows, and made a sharp noise of pain. “It does not hurt like it did when I was shot, but whenever I try to sleep I think that it does.”

“Did it hurt very much?” Henry asked quietly, reaching out to touch the spot on James’ arm where he knew the Chinese bullet had pierced him, the cotton nightshirt as heated as the skin beneath it.

“No,” James mumbled, contrary, and knocked his overly warm hand against Henry’s so he would press their palms together.

Henry did not squeeze James’ hand, simply pressed it between both of his own for a moment.There was a jumbled outpouring waiting on his tongue, of every emotion that had been sitting dammed up since James was hurt; all that fast moving fear and numbing dread, all the skittish relief that might move a man to tears for his friend. All the self-recrimination he had suffered while thinking on how his lax handling of the deck that day, of his delay in bringing Nebet to order, had brought James under the surgeon’s care for the second time in barely a year.

He did not get to say any of it - which was just as well, for he knew James was no confessor, and would refuse his guilt before half a sentence had left Henry'smouth; James was asking for a distraction so he might try and sleep, “I don’t want to be knocked out with potions,” he said when Henry offered to get Doctor Stewart. “Had enough of that while I was stuck in a sickbay hammock on the Cornwallis, and I do not want to develop a habit.”

“Oh… well…” Henry murmured, eyes flicking about the dark cabin, eyes falling on James’ rumpled sheets. “Did I ever tell you about when I joined the Navy?”

“That you were treated as an oddity, having attended _school_ before the Navy. Of all things.”

“Indeed. Well, on occasion the other boys my age, and some younger I will admit, would let my hammock down while I slept. Sending me _thump_ onto the deck.”

“That is unkind,” James said, lashes low over his eyes.

“I rather thought so too. I was bruised and aching constantly. And of course one has to take it on the chin, or such behaviour only becomes worse! Or, one borrows some pitch from the friendly caulker, and sticks the ringleaders shoes to the deck so they are late on watch with filthy shoes,” Henry smiled to himself, running his thumb over James’ knuckles. “I was a hero for a month amongst the boys.”

“You rascal,” James said quietly, a smile relaxing the pain pinching his features. Henry was glad to see it, and glad to have put it there - although James was so far into the embrace of the Afghan Poppy that was almost certainly meaningless.

“And you were a model of fine behaviour, were you?” Henry scoffed.

“Yes,” James muttered. “Commended by the captain.”

“I expect no less,” Henry murmured, watching as James slipped into the insensate state laudanum brought, not sleeping but hardly conscious; his head lolling and his breathing slow and shallow.

He left his hand in James’ as it did not feel like the thing to remove one’s comfort from one’s friend, especially when such contact was a balm to oneself. Instead he resigned himself to a bad back as he lay his head on his arm that was resting against the edge of the bunk, and let himself drop off to sleep.

* ***** *

_“She's buttoned on the sailor's clothing, dressed herself up like a man. Awa' she sailed like a tarry sailor, all aboard the Mary Anne..._ ” Henry sang to himself as he wandered through the dark, hot orlop; familiarity having him stepping around coils of rope and over midshipmen’s sea-chests without giving it a thought. _“Her pretty little fingers long and slender, dabbing in the pitch and tar.”_

He fell to humming as he reached the base of the forward ladder, pausing in a ray of blazing sunlight to try and parse some of his own handwriting.

The _Clio_ had been ordered to sit at anchor outside Mombasa’s port for a month, disrupting the Portuguese and Omani slavers who used it for their nefarious trade. They had used the opportunity to take on fresh vegetables and water, which Henry had spent the past hour making lists of. All part of the rounds and rounds of normality that kept the crew in order after last week's excitement.

Such sudden and unpleasant occurrences could topple the spirits of a crew: morale was delicately balanced between a ship’s confining gunwales on the best of days, and sailors did like to fall to superstitious alarm. So their routine could not be disturbed, and all must be well and all must carry on cheerfully, despite the faint stain of James’ blood on Henry’s trousers that the stewards had been unable to scrub out. 

_“One day in the heat of battle, shot and shell were flying there. Silver button flew off her waistcoat…”_ he set his pencil between his teeth rather than finish the rather indecorous lyric, tucking his book beneath his arm as he took the ladder up two rungs at a time.

He nodded to the coxswain when the old Jamaican greeted him, Henry promising to pass his best wishes on to James as he made his way to the great cabin.

Doctor Stewart had said that the lack of a fever was a sign of James healing quickly, and had allowed him to leave his bunk for a few hours in a day. Nevertheless, it still tugged at Henry’s heart to see James, sallow and subdued, chair turned at an angle to the table so he could sit with his legs stretched out, ignoring his tea in favour of gazing from the stern windows that were thrown open to let the breeze circulate. 

James looked to Henry when he slid the door shut behind him, the movement careful and stiff with pain despite the dulling weight of laudanum in his gaze

“Your colour is looking up today, sir,” Henry told him as he crossed the room, taking the heavy oak chair beside James when he waved to it. 

“Lying only diminishes you, Dundy,” James told him, voice firm despite the dressing wrapped about his throat, and held out his hand for the list Henry was carrying. “I exist in a fugue state. I am… half aware I am in pain. And very hot," he frowned, blinking slowly, "and ill when I eat. Happened in China too when I was... and all they want me to do is eat.”

“Well,” Henry said while James peered hazily at the list of supplies he had made. “I’m hardly going to feel sorry for you on the last count. I have been acting as master and commander _in_ your _absentia_. And out of a lieutenant’s cabin, might I add.”

James sighed, then nodded. He was wearing only a shirt and trousers, as his ruin of a uniform coat was in Bridgens' hands for a steward’s wizardry to be worked upon it, and Henry could just make out the faint shape of the bandages that crossed over James’ shoulder and wrapped about his chest.

“And yet you are coming up all butter and bacon, eh,” James told him as he made to lean back in his chair, then thought better of it, instead resting gingerly against the pillows someone had put between his good side and the armrest.

"I should like that in writing to show to the Admiralty." 

After a blank moment James smiled, “write it to old Barrow himself, old boy.”

“Capital,” Henry nodded to the list. “All in order?”

“Of course it is. I trust your abilities in all things. It’s Pritchard I have to watch - he struggles with the additions of odd numbers over fifteen, for some reason.”

“Numbers are difficult for some. He’s a fine officer”

“I know.” James huffed as he rubbed at his forehead. “I appear to be more irritable than even laudanum can ease.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised.”

James lifted his hand away to give Henry a flat look as the cabin door slid open, and Bridgens stepped in carrying a tray of tea.

“God save you, Bridgens,” Henry grinned. “I'm parched after a morning in the hold."

“I thought you might be in need, sir,” Bridgens said as he set down the porcelain cups and a small plate of the sugary sweets they had come across in Arabia, placing James’ half finished tea back onto his tray.

"Thank you John," James nodded. "Apparently my colour is up today. What say you?"

"You are looking more well rested, sir, I am glad to say. And the cooler breeze does tent to ease ills."

"Indeed it does,” James nodded. “And Lieutenant Le Vesconte has implied I am becoming irritable?"

Bridgens straightened, resting the tray on his hip. "If I might quote Francis Bacon, sir; _discretion in speech is worth more than eloquence_."

Henry grinned, sticky morsel between his fingers, as James huffed.

* ***** *

There had not been any serious problems with the ships that _Clio_ prevented from entering Mombasa harbour. The sight of Royal Navy colours were enough for most slavers to make a hasty retreat, while the rest were quick to be on their way upon seeing the guns rolled out. 

It was enough to keep the men entertained and (mostly) out of the mischief that often occurred when a ship was sitting at anchor. Henry was certainly kept busy, having to record every one of these encounters in triplicate for his, the ship’s, and the captain’s logs; the last one Henry was very keen to unload back onto James, who was _very_ trying when bored.

“I am stifled. This cabin is dark and this rug is _appallingly_ ugly,” he started to complain once Doctor Stewart began weaning him off laudanum. “I know why birds hurry to escape the safe confines of their cages if given half the chance,” he would sigh, Henry making sure he was turned away when he rolled his eyes at the melodrama; once catching Bridgens eye and sharing a look of fond exasperation.

Henry understood the frustration; sitting about was an anathema to James, who was an active commander who believed in pitching in and leading by example. His mood improved by having some work to do, even if he was still sometimes left dazed by his medicines. Although Henry’s humour did take a dire turn when he found James had sketched a cartoon of himself being clawed by Nebet beneath the date of his attack in the log book.

“I wish you would not,” Henry had grumbled while thumping the logs back into their boxes. “You would not do so if anyone else had been hurt. It is not a thing to be made light of!”

James gave Henry such a meek look that he had forgiven James even before he knocked their shoulders together and said, “rather I make light about it than continue with my self-indulgent wallowing, eh?”

The doctor allowed James to take walks on the gundeck after two weeks of rest. It improved his spirits and cheered the men, who were all glad to see their captain back in commission once again, with his pressed uniform somehow only bearing the faintest evidence of his mauling. And a week after that, James was deemed healed enough (that is, the doctor relented under his constant asking) to be able to tackle the ladders and make his way up to the weather deck.

Henry could tell by the cautiousness of his posture and tightness about his eyes that the ascent had hurt James. Nevertheless, he straightened his shoulders and shook the hands of the officers on duty as they welcomed him back on deck. 

“Le Vesconte has kept me abreast of all the comings and goings over the past weeks.” James said as he glanced about the _Clio_.

“We had hardly any trouble, sir,” Mr Chase spoke up, as perfectly bright eyed and eager faced as a midshipman should be.

“Some got too close, but we soon had the poxy dagoes turning about, sir,” the sailing master said, which was met with a murmur of agreement. 

James’ mouth became even more pensive and English, and he tucked his hands behind his back; not quite a grimace, Henry thought, but close. “Well,” James said, letting his voice carry to the men. “I would like to thank you all for the extra attention you have taken to your duties whilst I was indisposed.”

As officer of the watch Henry walked the deck with James, keeping out of the way of the men who were holystoning vigorously before the heat of the day made hard work intolerable. James cast an expert eye over everything, Henry feeling quite proud of himself when James nodded in approval at what he saw. He even stopped at Nebet’s pen, scratching the poor beast behind the ear in what Henry hoped she understood was forgiveness.

James was on deck for an hour, all in all; looking as comfortable and in command as always, yet stiff and awkward in himself. He was keen of mind and eye again thanks to being off the laudanum - marking a dark smudge of cloud on the distant horizon that no other had spotted - but became increasingly more pale and quiet until he informed the quarterdeck,“I shall be in my cabin.” His expression carefully blank as he crossed to the hatch.

Henry attended his duties for what was left of his watch, keeping his eye on the dark clouds out at sea and his mind on the men holystoning the deck until the mate, Mr McKinnon, came to relieve him for the forenoon watch. He did not rush to James, for that would not do, but made his way at his usual pace through the ship; following his habit of the past week by peeking his head into the great cabin to see how James fared. 

“For heaven’s sake! Why have you not called for Bridgens!” Henry demanded with more force than one should use for one’s captain; but the sight of James trying to change his own bloodied bandages was really too much. 

“I can do this myself,” James said with startling mulishness, even for him. “I am not some…” he grimaced as he passed the bandage gingerly under his arm. “I do not need to be waited on at every moment. I am perfectly capable!”

“You shall be most capable if the wound becomes blighted and you sicken,” Henry hissed as he went to James, who was standing at the threshold of his private cabin; Henry feeling all the more perturbed when James held the bandages away from him. “Let _me_ help you at least.”

James shot him a look, eyes bright with the pain he was obviously in. “Stop fussing.”

“Oh don’t snap at me, Fitzjames,” Henry chided, sounding much like his own dear mother; watching, unmoved as James puffed up, feathers ruffled, before gentling, closing his eyes and letting his arms drop to his sides.

Henry took up the box of bandages and medicines from the top of the drinks cabinet and bustled James further into his cramped cabin. Directing him to sit back to front in the low chair of his writing desk as Henry lay everything out on James’s bunk.

Henry had only seen these wounds when raw and blooded, and looking upon them now in the dim light of James’ cabin he found that they were not as deep or awful as he had imagined; yet the black stitches holding James' flesh together, although neat and clean, were an sobering sight. 

Henry lay a consoling hand on the heated skin of James’ shoulder, feeling him flinch when Henry wiped away dried blood with an old bandage dipped in gin. As he worked, Henry thought of all the times he had allowed himself to run his fingers over the planes of James’ back, searching for any imperfection that nature had given him to counter the vicious pink scars he carried from China.

There were none, of course. James was as unblemished as Adam and Eve, a blank slate for the world to leave all its marks on. 

"I'm sorry," James said quietly, reaching out to run his fingers along the carved edge of his writing desk.

"You know I shan't hear that, Jas," Henry said levelly as he began to wind the bandages over James shoulder and around his chest in an attempt at Bridgens’ exacting neatness.

“I know. It’s - I should not darken others with my frustration. Least of all you,” he grumbled as he moved his arm out of the way for Henry set the dressing in order, his tone brightening yet gaining an edge as he continued. “My frustration _and_ my embarrassment at being chewed upon by the ship’s cat. Of all the blasted things.”

“We all lose our composure at times. And your recent times have been awfully trying Jas," Henry said in what he hoped was a sage tone. “And I dare say captains have suffered worse misfortunes and mortifications than this. Officers are not a breed apart from embarrassments.”

James became quiet, hand laying still on his desk. He was a fellow who thought of three or four things at once; mind always turning in a way that, Henry suspected, made it so James did not know the cause of any unhappiness or joy until the very last moment. 

“Jas--” he began, but James spoke over him. 

“It is not befitting of the rank I have been... I have been _given_. Not any of this. I am hardly a flag captain or anything of the sort, I know, but the - there are expectations, even half the world away, of how one should behave. Not -” he tried to turn to face Henry, but could not quite manage it, “I do not speak of _our_ behaviour. Our... _closeness_. It is only my actions as captain that I berate myself for.”

“I am glad you made yourself clear, or I should have had to _leap_ to conclusions,” he said as he made a tidy square knot to secure the bandages. “Which is not only rather a contrivance, but I do not think I would make a spurned lover worthy of sensational romance.”

James did not laugh, but Henry could tell from the partial view of his face that he was smiling. He went into James’ drawers to pull out one of his remaining fresh shirts, shaking out the sprigs of fragrant Indian herbs Bridgens folded into the linen as he told James to raise his arms as well as he could.

“I don’t know about your unworthiness for a romance, Dundy," James said when he stood to tuck his shirt into his trousers, movements encumbered and slow, yet there was a glint in his eye. "By Bridgens' account, when I fainted you caught me with as much dash as a novel might expect from a lieutenant."

"Oh now," Henry felt his face heat as he helped James pull his braces over his shoulders. “It was a lot of scrambling. And I almost injured my back doing it! You’re frightfully heavy, Jas, I must say.”

James shook his head, turning to his looking glass as he set his collar and cravat in order over the dressing on his neck. Henry watched him for a moment or two, leaning on the rail of James’ berth, then said, “you did give me an awful fright. Several in fact. It is most disagreeable to see you injured James, and I am glad that you were not hurt further by fainting, or my catching you. Or, indeed, having your neck in a wild beasts’ mouth!”

“ _Henry_ ,” James said softly, turning to him with a gentle look that made Henry feel the close warmth of the cabin more keenly. 

“I should have started to turn grey, if I were not already. I insist that you desist from being stitched up for a decade at least,” he told James, who hesitated a moment, eyes flicking to the brightly lit great cabin before taking half a step towards Henry.

“Tip your head up,” he requested, which Henry did, feeling more than his face heat when James lay gentle, chaste kisses to his mouth until Henry’s lips began to tingle so delightfully that, if James were well, he would have taken him in his arms and dared more than a kiss.

“Well,” Henry breathed when James pulled away, his fingers touching the cuff of Henry’s jacket. “Your mood _has_ improved.”

James smiled, having to push his hair off his face rather than flick it gallantly from his eyes. "I lay that at your feet, old boy. You have a knack for it."

"Nothing more than my duty as your second and your friend," Henry said, knocking the back of his hand against the buttons of James’ waistcoat, "than to prevent you thinking you are less accomplished than you are."

"That's-" James tried to protest, but Henry shook his head.

"No matter how much of a bloody minded fool you can be!"

James looked amused, and turned to step into the great cabin. “I shall be compliant, and go and sit down before you tell me to.”

"I know it shall not last,” Henry said as he followed him, “but we must take things as we find them in this world.”

* ***** *

It had taken a day for the bank of raincloud to roll gloomily over the Indian ocean towards them. 

The crew had braced for the clattering, groaning monsoon storms they had become used to after four years in the east; topmen grumbling as they hurried aloft to check the sails and the deckhands battening everything down, Henry carefully bringing Nebet below to place her in one of the sail stores while the carpenter checked the caulking between the planking. 

They had been eating dinner when the rain began to patter faintly upon the deck, and most were surprised to find it did not worsen into sheets of rain so thick one would be more dry while sitting in the bath.

“It’s raining like it does in England,” Henry sighed from where he was sitting sideways on the low bench of the stern gallery, turned so he could watch water drip slowly from the overhang of the deck above, the falling rain hardly disturbing the still blue waters.

“Drizzle you mean?” James asked, not looking up from the chart of the Cape of Africa that he had rolled out on the great cabin’s table. 

“If you like,” Henry said, propping his chin up on his hand. “I haven’t seen drizzle since… I don’t know. You don’t pay attention to things like that until you’re wading through eastern humidity or scuffing around a bone dry desert.”

James was silent a moment, the sound of his moving about loud against the gentle noises of the rain. “I have spent more time away from England than in it, on balance. Homesickness has grown out of me, I suppose.”

“Homesick?” Henry asked, glancing back at James who was gingerly tilting his head, stretching out his neck that was newly free from stitches. “Maybe I am,” he looked out of the windows once more, then turned to face James, nodding to the chart. “We’ll all feel it a damn sight more once we get through the horrid gales and reefs about the Cape Good Hope, I wager.”

“Hmm. Maybe when we pick up the mail waiting for us in Capetown - I always feel the pull of home more when I read a letter from my family, and we have not had post since Bombay.” James thought a moment, picking up his glass of brandy that was set on a corner of the chart, the heavy paper curling up on itself. “I must admit, I did not want to be assigned to _Clio_ , owing to her sailing back to England. I had wanted to take one of the steam ships that had been in China, and earn enough sailing time and experience in the Pacific to make captain outright. Specialise in these new ships, maybe.”

“You never told me that,” Henry frowned.

“Hardly the thing, is it?” James said as he sipped his drink. “Hinting to your friend that you were not perfectly happy to be sailing with them.”

Henry nodded. “I must say, I did wonder why a newly made commander was given a ship that was on its way home to be paid off. But then…" Henry trailed off, unsure if he should mention China.

"But what?" James said lightly, but was giving Henry one of those direct looks of his; eyes dark as velvet earth and gaze just as impenetrable, making one feel as if he knew something you did not.

"Your wound had you mentioned in dispatches," Henry said carefully. "And the Admiralty loves a hero."

James’ expression became carefully still, his nails tapping against his glass, then shook his head. “Who knows what Barrow - who knows what the _Admiralty_ thinks, from one moment to the next,” he said as he rounded the table to stand nearer to Henry.

“You have had a fine time though?” Henry asked, feeling a little itch of worry that what he thought had been a dreamlike voyage, and a gentle building of fondness and shared intimacy between them, was frightfully one sided. “On this modest ship with our modest duties.”

“The finest,” James smiled like he meant it. “The Pacific would not have brought me half the sense of usefulness I think. Nor such good company.”

Henry hoped his expression was not silly as he smiled up at James. “Might have suffered a worse calamity than being brutally attacked by Nebet, also.”

“Now who makes light of it?” James said incredulously, rubbing at his neck. “Have to find someone to take her before we round the cape. The men cannot be blamed for being wary of her, and I hate to think what the storms might do to her - highly strung beast that she is.” 

“It shall be a shame to part with her,” Henry agreed, looking back to the rain. “But there would be no place for her in England. Exotic creatures do so wilt there,” he glanced up at James. “That is why we’re all the way out here, eh?”

James grinned into his glass as he drained it, heaving a deep breath before looking down at Henry. “We’re talking as if home is on the horizon, and we haven’t even made it into the Atlantic yet.”

“Rain like this makes one thoughtful,” Henry said as James eased himself down next to him. “Although the reality of home will be fending off my sisters and kicking my heels while waiting for a posting.”

“Yes,” James agreed, glancing at Henry when he pressed their knees together. 

“And writing to you, of course.”

James chewed his bottom lip, “of course."

Henry had not thought of what might become of them when they reached England. Mostly because it was so far away, but also because Henry would hate to be parted from one so dear to him as James was.

Maybe he would have said so if he had drunk a second glass of wine at dinner. Or if the sun was shining or James looked less pensive. But as it was, Henry kept that raw emotion to himself

“It is all too soon to say what we shall do or not do at home, anyway. We still have duties ahead of us,” James said firmly, then after a moment slanted Henry a look. “And adventures.”

“Oh, _don’t_. You’ve had enough adventures!” Henry sighed, but James merely raised a rakish brow, and Henry felt his face heat. “You rogue,” he muttered. “ _Adventures_! I say.”

“Rogue in name only. I can’t hardly do a thing,” James grumbled. “Can barely get up and down the bloody ladders, let alone anything so strenuous.”

“Walk before you run, and all that,” Henry placed what he hoped was a consoling hand on James’s thigh, not really sure what to say to a man when it was the lack of Henry’s clumsy _attentions_ that were being lamented. “There is plenty of time until Capetown.”

James shot him a look. “Good lord, what do you have planned for me in Capetown!?”

“Nothing! It is simply a set point on our voyage, it is not… I’m not sure what I should _plan_ anyway,” Henry said, sure his face did something peculiar, but James was looking at him in that soft way that spoke of a fondness that Henry hoped might match his own. 

“I know what I shall ensure when we are home,” James proclaimed. “That you shall be my lieutenant when I get my next command. I do not know how I should sail anywhere without you, Dundy.” 

Henry regarded the set look on James’ face, as if any future he desired could be brought into being through his will alone. Which seemed true at times, considering that things always happened to fall in James’ favour no matter what he got himself into. 

What good fortune this man had, Henry pondered as he looked at the angry edges of the scar visible over the edge of James’ collar; thinking of the stitches still marring his back and the pink raised scars from the bullet that had almost killed him. Thinking of his rapid rise in rank, and the standard James held himself to because of it - and how failing caused self-doubt to claw at him as sharply as Nebet had.

James was blessed with a brutal luck; the sort that used men up, Henry thought grimly as he reached for James’ hand, squeezing his fingers when they tangled together. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The last time I had stitches was when I was nine, so I battled it out with google to get info on stitches that wasn't about c-sections; if there is anything wrong, I apologise. 
> 
> The shanty Dundy sings is 'William Taylor', which is a wild ride ngl.
> 
> Shouldn't need saying, but don't fuck about with wild animals yeah?


End file.
